


my love is made of truth (and i believe it)

by Damkianna



Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Russ doesn't realize what's going on right away.In his defense, manifestations vary. Everybody knows that. It all depends on who you are, who your soulmate is, and some manifestations are there from the start; others don't show up until you've already met, or even after.And of all the possibilities Russ might have been considering, nowhere among them was that he'd end up cosmically linked by inexorable destiny to some namby-pamby stick-up-his-ass government tool, and especially not with atruth curse.





	my love is made of truth (and i believe it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedibuttercup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/gifts).



> Your request for this pairing was everything I could possibly have hoped for, jedibuttercup, and the soulmate prompt ran away with me immediately! I just hope you enjoy reading this even a fraction as much as I enjoyed writing this, and that you've had a fantastic F5K. :D
> 
> This is half a soulmate AU and half a canon-divergence AU, which means it references events and uses some dialogue/scenarios from the first ten eps of the show (but fewer, and/or they're increasingly different, as the fic progresses). Basically I couldn't help but imagine how the discovery that they were soulmates, and especially in this particular way, would change Milt's behavior, and the whole thing snowballed from there. /o\ The title is adapted from a couple lines of Shakespeare's [Sonnet 138](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50386/sonnet-138-when-my-love-swears-that-she-is-made-of-truth).

 

 

Russ doesn't realize what's going on right away.

In his defense, manifestations vary. Everybody knows that. It all depends on who you are, who your soulmate is, and some manifestations are there from the start; others don't show up until you've already met, or even after.

Even within the BCPD office, they've got plenty of different kinds. Funkhauser's got a name—"That was all I needed, man," he likes to say, to anybody stupid enough to ask and plenty of people who don't. "Just look at that," and he'll roll up his sleeve and hold out his forearm. " _Shaylene_. First word I learned how to read, right there. Shaylene."

Font's got first words; Jacocks hears music, and some of it is stuff she doesn't know, so she's pretty sure it has to be coming from her soulmate. Guz has an arrow that always points the same way—turns when she does, but hardly moves the rest of the time. Russ figures that means whoever it is must be pretty far away, and he knows better than to ask.

Holly's got flowers. Buds, really, on branches, so it's sort of hard to be certain exactly what kind they are. She told Russ once that she thought maybe they'd bloom when she and her soulmate met each other—that her soulmate's would, too, and that's how they'd be sure.

(And yeah, all right, maybe Russ had hoped. Maybe he'd checked, now and then, the first year or so they'd known each other, in the shower or when he got dressed in the morning. Just in case pear trees or cherry blossoms or some shit were scrawling themselves onto him somewhere.

But they never had, and, well. Common sense, especially if you really believe the way Holly does. People mostly don't start up anything serious with someone who doesn't match.)

And the day Milt Chamberlain arrives in Battle Creek, Russ is already sore and sour and pissed off, and not taking any particular pains to hide it. Magnum PI _is_ still on, dammit; and Milt answering that godforsaken phone _does_ make him the primary, and no fucking way is it a double homicide, that's just too unfair to be _possible_.

Except that's how it happens anyway. Russ's analysis of the scene is perfectly legitimate, even if there is a little speculation involved. And they do _not_ need Milton Chamberlain or his fancy-ass FBI forensic bullshit to solve this case.

Really, the first time he even has an opportunity to notice it is right after they talk to Teddy, the moment he opens his mouth and looks at Milt and hears himself say, "—because you're just really good-looking, man."

That's—that's not what he meant to say. Is it? Or at least not like that.

Not that it matters to Milt, who just blinks at him and says, "Thank you," calmly.

Like people come up to him and tell him how pretty he is every day. Probably they do, Russ thinks blackly. Fucking Milt.

But that isn't the point. "But then," Russ pushes on, "as people get to know you, I think you get very unlucky. Which is how you ended up here in Battle Creek, and not Washington or New York, or even Detroit."

"I go where I'm assigned," Milt says quietly—which is exactly like him, goody-two-shoes ass-kissing douche that he is, and Russ wouldn't have thought twice about it except for the way Milt pauses afterward and frowns.

Just a flicker, but it's the first time Russ has seen an expression on his face that isn't his stupid smile, or the earnest attentive look he gives to every single person who talks to him. Like he got startled out of his Ken doll impression, just for a second; like maybe that wasn't quite what he meant to say, either.

 

*

 

They catch Omar. He coughs up a name. Milt calls Judge Blumenthal.

("I think I know what happened to you," Russ says, and it _is_ his best guess, at least right now. Because he doesn't know shit about Milt, not really, but there has to be some kind of explanation for how Milt gets away with being the way he is, how he's got the balls to just stand there and have things _work out_ for him and act like it's nothing. Because you can't become an FBI agent—especially not one who somebody higher up took the time to shuffle off to _Battle Creek_ —and actually believe that people are good, that the universe is fair or just or kind—

"I agree," Milt says, quiet, meeting Russ's eyes in the dimness; and for that split second, maybe, _maybe_ , he's not utterly full of shit.)

Taylor's place is a dead end, but they have what they need anyway, which is to say that they can talk Ricky into making it look like they do.

Or they could have, that is, except something totally fucking weird happens, and this time Russ can't ignore it.

"We bluff," he says to Milt, the shape of the whole plan already coming together in his head; and it's not that it's a good idea so much as that it's the only idea. Everything they've got so far—not that it's all that much, but it's what they have, dammit—is pointing them right at Taylor. And the big fat nothing they got from his place is making Russ itch all over, twitchy with urgency. It's like he can _feel_ Taylor slipping through their fingers, a little further every second they stand here talking, and he can't fucking stand it.

He wants to shout it right into Milt's face: this, right here, is how the world really works. Taylor absolutely fucking did it, they will never ever be able to find the proof they need, and he'll walk away scot-free if they don't fucking _do_ something. Hardly much of a price to pay, is it? One little lie from Ricky the pizza boy, and Taylor's bound to fold. Once he knows they know he did it—he'll crack. He has to. He _has_ to.

"We bluff," Milt repeats slowly, like this is the first time it's ever occurred to him that anybody might—gasp!—lie to a murder suspect. "And if he calls that bluff—"

"It won't matter," Russ snaps, "because he isn't going to," except—

Except he doesn't. That's what he's _going_ to say. He wants to. He plans to. He has no intention whatsoever of allowing himself to acknowledge the possibility that this isn't going to work, especially not aloud and _especially_ not to Milton fucking Chamberlain.

Which means it's a shock to him as much as it probably is to Milt, when he opens his mouth and hears himself say, "If he calls our bluff, we're screwed."

He blinks and swallows and manages to rally himself, swinging around to glare at Milt.

"That's sort of the whole principle behind bluffing, Milt: the only reason you do it is you've got fuck-all in your hand. We act like we've got evidence, even though we don't—"

"What evidence?"

"Eyewitness."

And Milt might be nothing but a bag of hot air with a stick up its ass, but he's not stupid. "You mean Ricky," he says, and then, in that horrible earnest way he has, "Russ, we can't ask him to perjure himself."

"He won't have to!" Russ insists, avoiding eye contact. "We'll just—put him in front of a lineup, tell him which one is Taylor, and then Perlmutter will want to take the case to trial and Guz will have me writing parking tickets for the next fifteen years once I tell her we can't."

What? Fuck, fuck, he did it again; what the hell is wrong with him? He bites his tongue, just to make sure it's still his, and shakes himself, and then he clears his throat and looks at Milt and says—

"This is a really bad idea and it could screw up the entire case."

And it's right then, staring into Milt's bewildered face and watching his eyebrows rise, _knowing_ with absolute certainty that that was about the last thing he'd been intending to tell Milt—that's when Russ figures it out. That's when he realizes what's happening to them and why; and he drops his head into his hands with a half-hysterical little bark of laughter and then yells a muffled blue streak into the heels of his palms.

 

*

 

Manifestations vary; but there aren't seven billion of them. Or, well, three billion and change, with a little rounding to account for the somewhat rarer triple and triple-plus arrangements.

A few hundred, depending on how they're categorized. New ones do crop up now and then, but the major variations are pretty well-known.

Why they're different is a more complicated question, but the generally agreed-upon theory is simply that they have to be or they couldn't work for everybody. People who get first words never get "Nice to meet you" or "Thank you for shopping at Walmart"; people who get names never get "Thomas" or "Elizabeth" or "Juan". People who can't hear don't get music, and people who can't see don't get marks.

And, Russ thinks, probably—

Probably, people who wouldn't lie aren't forced to tell their soulmates the truth.

 

*

 

After a minute or two, he manages to get a grip, scrubs his hands across his face and bites out something at Milt about how they probably wouldn't have been able to get Ricky to agree to it anyway.

(Is that true? It's speculation, so Russ can't know for sure one way or the other; that must be what makes it okay to say.)

They still have to get him home, though. A lot earlier than they would've been doing it if they'd made him stick around the PD to do a lineup—and maybe that's why they get shot up in a driveby outside Ricky's apartment. Maybe if they'd taken longer, it would've been on the street outside the PD instead. That would've been fun.

As it is, fucking Milt hears the screech of tires first, whips his head around while Russ is still trying to parse the sound and then executes a quick flying tackle and takes Russ and Ricky both down to the sidewalk. For one disgusting and unforgivably long moment, Russ can't think about anything but the weight of Milt's stupid body against his, the gentle curve of Milt's stupid fingers against the back of his neck and the individual points of warmth that are Milt's stupid fingertips in his hair—curling around the back of his head, pressing him protectively down.

The car's far enough away that the shots pop out over them like firecrackers, don't sound anywhere near as dangerous as they are. Ricky yelps, flattening himself against the concrete; and Russ catches his breath—when did it get knocked out of him?—and then shoves at Milt's forearm, snapping, "Oh, come on. Get off, jesus, I'm fine."

"You sure?" Milt says, easing away but not fucking far enough.

" _Yes_ ," Russ tells him, emphatic, and if he's able to say it right to Milt's face then it has to be true. "You throw yourself between me and a hail of bullets, and, what, that's supposed to impress me? I owe you now?"

Except it works both ways: when Milt stares back at him, blinking, and then says, "No, of course not. If you'd heard the car first, I—I'd like to think you'd have done the same for me," it must be—he must mean it.

 

*

 

He doesn't seem to notice it then. Russ can't help watching him, the whole rest of the day, as they get Ricky set up in the FBI's giant fucking safehouse; but if Milt gets tripped up by it, says anything to Russ that he didn't mean to say, Russ can't really tell.

And then they're off the clock at last, and Russ goes home to his apartment and lies down, stares at his ceiling in the dark, and thinks: shit.

Shit. Milton Chamberlain, FBI agent and stand-up guy and all-around intolerably naive and infuriating human being, is Russ's motherfucking soulmate. What a _joke_ , what an unbelievable cosmic fuckup. What a goddamn nightmare. To think he used to let himself hope it might end up being Holly—he'd have tattooed an entire fucking tree on himself if he'd known what was waiting for him around the corner. He chokes out half a laugh at nothing, at himself, and rubs a hand across his forehead.

He can't even get his head around it. Soulmates are _soulmates_ , it's—whatever he and Milt are going to end up being to each other, it's serious. If the universe had marked them down as hatesexing fuckbuddies, Russ might almost be able to see it: Milt already drives him wild, if only with blazing irritation, and he _is_ infuriatingly attractive, even if that mostly just makes Russ resent him more. That's—that could have happened. Maybe.

But soulmates is something else. Soulmates is—that shit lasts, that's the rest of both their lives. That's the most important, essential, fundamental connection Russ is ever going to make with another human being, and apparently it's going to be with _Milt_. As if Russ's life to date hadn't been depressing enough.

Fuck.

Maybe it doesn't have to matter, he tells himself the next day, studiously avoiding eye contact with Milt as they head to the safehouse to check on Ricky in the morning. Maybe Milt will never figure it out; maybe they can just ignore it, pretend it's not happening, make it go away. Maybe the universe will realize it made a mistake and let them off the hook, once they've finished thoroughly demonstrating their blistering incompatibility.

Yeah. Right.

Funkhauser's fine, Ricky's fine, and the safehouse is just as ridiculously swank in the light of day as it had looked to Russ last night. And being able to tell Milt he's full of shit, when he spouts that line of crap about the unassailability of evidence, is a little extra satisfying, now that Russ knows it has to be true.

(True enough, anyway. He'd googled a little, couldn't help it: this kind of manifestation's inevitably subjective. Soulmates with it can't knowingly lie to each other, but that's all—things they don't know, or things they believe but are mistaken about, don't count as lies. A couple pairs tried setting themselves up as fortune-tellers, back in the day, making statements about people's futures to each other and claiming the manifestation was a guarantee; but it doesn't work that way.)

And then they get the call about the gun. The gun in the _pizza box_ , and Russ doesn't need Milt and his goddamn FBI forensics team to follow that hunch right where it leads him. Anchovy, of all things.

As far as Russ can tell, Milt still hasn't noticed. Not that Russ can blame him, no matter how much he'd like to: when they're talking about the case, it's not really a problem. Even Russ can almost forget about it, for ten minutes at a time, because tossing theories around and following up the sudden lead that's been dropped in their laps isn't anything they'd need to hold back over.

Font's news about Ricky's sister is not good but also not entirely unexpected, and they make it to Taylor's just in time to stop Ricky from shooting him in the head. And it really is _them_ , because Russ couldn't say for sure which of their speeches was more effective, or whether maybe it actually was the combination.

(Not that that changes anything. Not that he suddenly thinks the universe has any idea what the hell it's doing. He and Milt managing not to let a guy get murdered right in front of them is like the absolute bare minimum a couple cops should be capable of, for crying out loud. No reason for them to throw themselves a party.)

But they walk out afterward together, back toward the car, and Russ is a detective, okay? He's just not good at letting things lie.

"You know, that stuff you said in there about second chances, that seemed awful personal."

"It was," Milt says.

And this, Russ thinks, this is going to be it right here: the way Milt's eyes widen, the way he jerks and flicks a wary glance at Russ—that wasn't what he meant to say and he knows it, and he's about to try to cover for it, which means he's also about to learn that he can't.

"It—" Milt stops short, like maybe he almost can feel his tongue about to move the wrong direction, shape the wrong word; he clears his throat and looks away, smooths an absent hand down the line of his tie. "It was," he says again, and he hears himself and his expression goes bewildered, horrified. "It was personal, and I said it to him because I need to believe it," and that's the moment he realizes more talking won't help.

Russ is expecting Milt to look at him, to figure it out and be totally aghast that the universe gave him not only a shitty manifestation, but a grumpy half-burned-out small-town cop, to boot. Surely not even sunshine-and-daisies Milt can put a positive spin on this, right? He's expecting Milt to react badly.

But he's expecting Milt to react badly in a loud way. To yell at Russ, to ask him when this started and when Russ noticed, why he didn't say anything—maybe something about how it's clear that the universe intends for them to be _open_ and _honest_ with each other, that Russ has forced their whole soulmateship to start off on the wrong foot.

And Milt—doesn't. He stands there in the sunshine, half a dozen steps away from the PD vehicle they were about to drive off in, and he looks pale, sick; he's pressed his mouth into a line like he's afraid of what else might come out of it, staring at Russ like Russ is his worst fucking nightmare.

Not that he can blame Russ for any of this. Russ hadn't wanted to have anything to do with him; but Milt had insisted on the two of them working this case, hadn't left Russ alone.

Bet he's regretting that right now, Russ thinks meanly.

But if he is, he doesn't say so. He stares at Russ some more, swallows once, twice, and then turns on his heel and strides the rest of the way to the driver's door of the car, hands quick but so unsteady he's almost fumbling with the door handle. He doesn't wait to start the car, and Russ throws himself at the passenger side with a sudden prickle of apprehension that Milt—Milt might just drive off and leave him there if he doesn't.

Milt doesn't look over. The drive back to the PD is silent. And that's—

That's fine, Russ decides. He definitely didn't want this to happen, and apparently Milt's not too keen on it either. Plan Ignore This Until It Goes Away is clearly at the top of the list. It's not like it has to be a big deal. They can still talk to each other about work stuff, and Russ sure hadn't been planning to push Milt into any heart-to-hearts about this.

It won't be a problem if they don't make it into one. And they seem to be pretty much on the same page about that.

Which doesn't really explain why Russ walks into the PD the morning after and finds Guz waiting for him, listens to her explain that he's back with Font and Milt has requested Jacocks as the PD's liaison with the FBI field office, and feels distinctly fucking pissed off about it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, Russ really _isn't_ any good at letting things lie. That's basically why he's a cop, when you get right down to it: because he can't leave well enough alone, can't stop digging, always has to push and poke and pry just a little further. And this thing with Milt, with what he said and why, is like an itch Russ can't scratch.

Like, fine, so Milt believes in the redemptive power of second chances. Big whoop. There's no reason for him to have wanted to hide that from Russ—for _that_ to be the thing he can't lie about, the thing that should make him catch on at last to this stupid fucking prank the cosmos is playing on the two of them.

_It was personal, and I said it to him because I need to believe it._

What does Milt and his perfect career, his perfect hair, his perfect _life_ , need with forgiveness? What the hell does he want a do-over for? Aside from landing Russ as his lifelong metaphysical ball-and-chain, anyway. _Is_ there something hiding back there, something that went just wrong enough to get Milt punted to Michigan over it? Not that Russ would put it past Milt to wax philosophical about the human capacity for change and self-improvement just because he—he misfiled some paperwork one time or some bullshit like that, but—

But he hadn't sounded like he was pontificating. He hadn't sounded patronizing, or pitying, or like he was blowing smoke. When he was talking to Ricky, or after. _We cannot be defined by our mistakes. And the only way to do that is to make sure everything else overpowers those mistakes. We have that chance—as long as we're alive, we have that chance—_

And then he tried to lie to Russ about it afterward, and when he realized he couldn't, he freaked out so bad he didn't say a word to Russ for the entire rest of the day.

And Russ can't just forget about it. He _can't_.

 

*

 

Some guy drowns in maple syrup.

Guz tells Jacocks to talk to Milt about it, since the dude's been getting rained on for a few hours by the time they get the call, and Jacocks does it. Font gets a badly-timed migraine, so Russ goes to the morgue by himself—or at least he thought it would be by himself, except Milt and Jacocks are already there.

Milt doesn't talk to him. Milt doesn't so much as look at him. Meredith's giving them all some serious side-eye, from down there at waist level, because they're standing about as far away from each other as they possibly can, taking turns asking her questions without ever acknowledging that there's anybody else talking, with Jacocks in the middle looking bewildered and interrupting now and then to ask questions of her own.

And then Milt and Jacocks head out to do the death notification, and Russ—

Russ sits there twiddling his fucking thumbs and trying really, really hard not to resent Font for having the bad luck to get migraines.

It's not that he wants to be out there with Milt. Font's his partner, they get along and they're good together, and this thing where he and Milt just pretend the other doesn't exist is working great so far. Russ has zero complaints. It's not like he asked to be cosmically linked by inexorable destiny to some namby-pamby stick-up-his-ass government tool, and especially not with a fucking _truth curse_. That Milt is just as willing to ignore the whole situation as Russ is an unexpected but welcome gift.

It's just—

It's just he can't forget about it, that's all. And it's starting to really drive him nuts.

 

*

 

It's half the reason he fakes permission for Jacocks to go to the FBI training seminar, in the end. Because one of Milt's former bosses is supposed to be there, and if Milt won't tell Russ anything, then maybe Bromberg can.

Half, because the other half is—not that Russ cares _that_ much, okay, but with Jacocks out of the office, Milt can't dodge him half as well.

It's Russ and Font who are partners; not just partners, friends.

But somehow it's Milt Russ can't stop glancing at, Milt who ends up next to him in the interrogation room with Joey Ferraro. Perfect setup, really: they can fire questions at Joey, even mention each other to him, without having to interact directly at all.

And damned if it doesn't _work_ , somehow. There's no reason why it should, when they still can hardly stand each other—but they follow each other's leads weirdly easily, even smoothly, Milt's bland interjection about the barbeque so perfectly timed it's like they planned it beforehand.

Which they didn't, because they're not speaking.

Funny, Russ thinks grimly afterward, when they realize it was Joey after all. Funny, that he should be able to make Milt tell him the truth, and not the goddamn suspects.

But—hell, there's no reason to think Bromberg's going to be any different. Russ listens to Erin, spinning him some line about what Bromberg did or didn't tell her and how Russ should let it go, and she's half right but not in the way she meant it. Because there's no reason to think it would help, asking Bromberg. Why should it? Maybe he doesn't even know; maybe he hates Milt, too, and he'd just made some shit up.

The problem isn't that Russ doesn't know where to go to get himself an answer. The problem is that the manifestation can't compel that answer, can't force Milt to spit it out. It'll be a true answer, if it ever comes—but Milt has to choose to give it, even if he can't choose what it will be.

And there's got to be some way to convince him to talk to Russ again. There's _got_ to be.

"Russ? Russ. Russ."

"Hm? What?"

Erin raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Are you even listening to me? I'm telling you, Milt deserves a chance to start fresh."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Russ says, waving a hand. "Okay."

"Okay," Erin repeats, insultingly skeptical.

" _Yes_ , okay. I get it," Russ mutters. "Thanks for tracking down Bromberg for me. If," he adds carefully, "Milt talks to me about it, then he talks to me about it. But I'm not going to keep pushing with the FBI. I promise."

And he means it, sort of. He waits through Erin watching him sharply for a long moment; and finally she sighs and says, "All right." And then she leans in a little closer, confiding. "And thanks for sending me to that seminar. It was _so cool_."

 

*

 

Despite the whole thing with Joey, Russ actually does have some practice getting people to talk to him. The trick is to make it easy—or, if you can't make it easy, to at least make it harder not to do it than to do it.

And there is one pretty obvious in, with a guy like Milt. All that stuff about treating people fairly and being considerate, about opening up. Hell, he told Russ the answer himself that very first day he arrived: _when you trust people, they—they trust you_.

He'd said that to Russ; it must have been true, or at least Milt thought it was. So there's no reason Russ shouldn't be able to get Milt to talk to him. He just—

He just has to talk to Milt first.

No problem.

Right.

He does maybe need a little time to psych himself up for it. At least he's going to have a chance to decide what to tell Milt, what to give away. But it'll have to be something that matters, if this is going to work. It'll have to be something that matters enough to make Milt feel like Russ is trusting him with it.

Which, Russ kind of will be—but only so he can get what he wants. That's all. Milt's still unbearable, the universe is still wrong, and there's no way this ends with Russ and Milt anything but acquaintances who worked together once. It's not like a deliberate forced confession out of Russ, just to make Milt feel obligated the way Russ wants him to, is actually going to make them _closer_. No way in hell.

Because Milt was wrong: when you trust people, that just makes you a sucker.

 

*

 

The whole dog thing is what gives Russ the opportunity. Milt's got to be around to supervise "Agent Fraser"—like even FBI dog noses are somehow more technologically advanced than BCPD dog noses, but whatever. The point is, Russ and Font are going to be stuck with Milt and the dog for a while, and it's the best chance to corner Milt that Russ has had in days.

Nobody else has noticed anything yet. But that's mostly down to the part where Russ and Milt haven't spent more than fifteen minutes in the same place since that horrible silent drive back to the PD, right after Milt figured it out. And today—

Today, Font is right there, and this time he doesn't get a migraine. He can hardly miss the way they're using him as a buffer, making casual observations aloud to him and never addressing each other.

And then Russ clears his throat, pauses and turns deliberately toward Milt, and says, "So the thing is, it's not that I hate you."

The change in the air, the sudden tightwire tension, is unmistakable, and the way Font slows and raises his eyebrows at Russ means he's definitely planning to get in Russ's face about this later.

But that's fine. After all, Russ can lie to Font, if he really feels a need.

It's Milt who's the problem. And it's Milt who's staring back at Russ right now silently, jaw set, shoulders so square he might as well be a Lego.

"Milt," Russ adds, belatedly, in case Milt thinks he's trying to get around this by talking to the pavement or the sky or Font's hair. "It's not that I hate you. There are some things _about_ you that I kind of hate, but—you're not stupid. When we interrogated Joey Ferraro together, we were—that was good. We were good."

"Joey Ferraro lied to us," Milt says, looking away.

"Yeah, well," Russ says, "you win some, you lose some. The point is, you're not the worst partner a guy could ask for, and I don't hate you. I just don't know what the hell to do with this," and fuck, it's getting away from him; he shouldn't be talking, he needs to stop talking. This isn't anything he was planning to say— "and I'm only good at ignoring questions if I don't want to know the answers. And you're just—you're just one giant question mark in a suit, man. A giant question mark with incredible cheekbones."

And shit, Font's eyebrows absolutely leap for his hairline; Russ is never going to hear the end of that one.

But Milt doesn't so much as twitch. He just keeps looking at Russ. His mouth is tense, flat, and then he swallows once and says quietly, "I don't want to tell you what you want to know." Except he can't quite stop there: he grimaces, swallows again and says even more quietly, "Except when I do."

Russ almost laughs. "Yeah, well," he mutters instead, rubbing a hand across his chin. "I think maybe you're going to have to."

And Milt could just stop there. It wasn't a question, and even if it had been, he wouldn't have had to answer it; he could just walk away. But maybe it worked after all; maybe he does feel like he owes Russ a little. Because he takes a half-step closer, ducks his head, and tells Russ, "I know. I—I know. That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

 

*

 

Russ isn't going to tell Font a damn thing. He's got it all straight in his head, okay, and this is—this is between him and Milt. It's none of Font's business, and Russ isn't going to crack. Font can apply as much pressure as he wants; he's never been that great at questioning people, he's pretty much always been the good cop to Russ's bad cop, and it's not like there's anything scary about the good cop.

Which is all totally true and accurate. In the end, Font doesn't do anything but sit there—it's the open bar at Funk's pre-commitment party that does all the work.

"Can you believe that?" Russ finds himself saying, gesturing widely with his—fifth? Sixth?—most recent empty and nearly knocking Font's own beer over. "I mean, of all the luck, _that_ guy. That guy! 'S bullshit, man."

Font blinks at him. "Wait, what? Are you—did you just say Milt was your soulmate?"

" _Yeah_ ," Russ says. "We can't lie to each other. Tried. Doesn't work. We—we have to tell each other the truth. Out of everybody in the whole goddamn world, you and Guz and Holly, everybody I give a shit about, and it's Milton fucking Chamberlain I can't lie to—"

"Milt's your soulmate," Font repeats.

"Yeah, I know," Russ grunts. "Try to keep up, huh?"

"You—have you told anybody?"

"Nope," Russ says, popping the p with a little extra zing. "Are you kidding? Nah, 's just me and him. And you, I guess. Wouldn't know what the hell to say anyway. _Milt_. Milt," Russ repeats contemplatively, and huh, when he says it enough times in a row it hardly even sounds like a word anymore. "Milt. Milt. Miiiiiiilt."

"You're serious."

"Do I sound like I'm joking?" Russ demands blurrily, leaning in across the table. "It's not going to be a thing, okay, it's—it's not like it actually matters."

"Uh, _yeah_ ," Font says, "yeah, it sort of does, man."

"Does not," Russ insists. "You heard him."

"What? You—wait, you mean the other day?" Font's watching him with a gaze that seems suspiciously steady.

"You aren't as drunk as me," Russ says, jabbing an accusing finger very nearly up Font's nose.

"No, I'm not," Font agrees, catching Russ's hand before any damage can be done and returning it thoughtfully to Russ's side of the table. "Because you've been sitting over there killing the equivalent of a six-pack by yourself and it's hardly even been two hours since we got here. Russ—who the hell are you trying to kid? Milt's your _soulmate_. Of course it matters."

"Nah." Russ shakes his head. "No way. We're never going to be anything. You heard him. He doesn't want to tell me. Doesn't _trust_ me. How the fuck'm I ever going to get him to—it's never going to happen. You understand? So it doesn't matter. It's never going to matter."

"Okay, Russ," Font says gently, and pats him on the arm.

Lucky for him that it takes another couple hours for the call to come about Guz's house going up in flames; by then he's at least started to sober up a little.

 

*

 

The hell of it is, Font's not wrong. It _does_ matter.

It shouldn't. Russ shouldn't let it. He should just drop it. That's how it works sometimes, after all; there's records, manifestations that don't kick in until the second, third, tenth time you meet somebody, because the you that you were the first time wasn't quite the right person. You had to go through a few more things, learn a little more about yourself, before you matched your soulmate for real the way you were supposed to.

Maybe when he and Milt have both cracked ninety and gotten dementia, they'll be perfect for each other.

(Never mind that their manifestation was there on the first day, pretty much right off the bat. Never mind that they might as well have matched the second they stepped into the same room.

Russ can't lie to Milt; but he can still lie to himself, if he tries.)

But it does matter, and not knowing, not understanding what it is he needs to do to get Milt to crack, just isn't the kind of thing Russ has ever been any good at ignoring.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Guz's house fire turns out to be none of the zillion possible suspects they'd identified, but a nearly-harmless guy who caused a stupid accident. The only halfway-decent thing that comes of it is that Danny's back in town, and even that is sort of fucked up just because of the circumstances—not like Guz can blame Russ for insisting on following procedure normally, when she had exactly the same thought, but Russ can admit that he picked one hell of a way to welcome the kid back to Battle Creek.

But in the end it's Mr. Nearly-Harmless, staring at Guz with such pleading eyes it makes Russ feel kind of embarrassed for the guy by proxy. The arrow on Guz's arm is moving exactly the same way as ever, and it sure isn't pointing toward him.

"His soulmate died a few years ago," she tells Russ afterward, conversational, leaning against her desk and staring into the middle distance. "Once I agreed to go out with him, I think he assumed the same thing must have happened to me."

And it's not uncommon, Russ knows. Not anymore, at least. Hardly anybody gets bent out of shape about relationships that happen _before_ you match, these days, because everybody's inevitably on the same page about how long those are going to last. But there are still some people who get weird about afterward—about how your soulmate should have been it for you, everything you ever needed, and wanting anything new once they're gone is anywhere from disrespectful to actively horrifying.

But Guz's arrow still moves.

"They're not dead," she adds after a second, and Russ looks up and realizes she followed the glance he'd been aiming at her arm. "They're fine. I'm just—not in any hurry."

Russ clears his throat, and reaches up to scratch absently at the back of his neck; it's a tell, kind of, but then a lot of things are when he's talking to Guz, and the question he's about to ask is a goddamn awkward one. "And you figure that's okay with them?"

Guz tilts her head and gives him a steady even look. "I figure if it wasn't, they wouldn't be my soulmate," she says.

"Right," Russ says, and goes back to his desk, tips back in his chair and looks across the lobby at the FBI field office and turns that over for a minute.

Kind of tempting, he supposes. To think there's really somebody out there for you who wouldn't mind all the weird dumb shit you do, who'd get it—or who wouldn't mind putting up with you while you figured out how to cut it out, at least. Maybe Guz really isn't in a hurry; or maybe she just likes that idea better than whatever the reality might turn out to be, that having the cake of a soulmate still out there somewhere yet to meet is better than eating it.

(It's not going to work like that for Russ and Milt, that's for damn sure. They're already driving each other nuts; Milt and his bullshit are hardly any kind of good match for Russ, and Russ digging in like a pitbull doesn't exactly seem to be endearing him to Milt any. There's no way they're better off together than they would be apart.

No way. That's all there is to it.)

 

*

 

Russ tries really, really hard to leave Milt alone through the whole thing with the assassination attempt on the mayor.

Not because he's calling it quits—far from it. But he can afford to take his time, soften Milt up a little; let Milt think Russ is relenting while Russ thinks up a new angle to come at him from.

And besides, they need the stupid FBI and their stupid phone-tracking database bullshit to help them out with this whole remote-rifle-trigger thing, so not making Milt mad is—temporarily—the better part of valor.

Russ keeps it businesslike, or at least as businesslike as he knows how. They talk to each other about the case, about the facial recognition results and possible motives and the stuff they've figured out so far: nothing either one of them is remotely tempted to lie about. And it works great. They unravel the whole thing, even manage to talk Darrel Hardy off the edge of the parking structure without screwing up. So it works great, at least right up until the end.

Right up until they watch the Hardy brothers hug it out in interrogation. Russ barely manages not to roll his eyes, listening to the mayor say words like _love_ to the guy who tried to murder him _multiple times_ , but then Darrel reaches up to hug his brother back, and—

And it feels weird, almost embarrassing, to be standing there looking. Standing there next to Milt, who Russ has already admitted to not hating, hasn't tried to kill even once; it's a longass way from there to—to anything Russ might even think about calling love, but he can't help shooting Milt a stupid self-conscious little glance, and then Milt fucking looks right back at him, eyes dark and a little uncertain, and Russ has to turn away or else he feels in his bones he's going to do or say something he can't take back.

Milt feels it too, maybe, or he wouldn't have started pontificating about success on the way out. And Russ can't help but aim a skeptical stare at the back of his head, can't help but say it: "Is that what you think this is about? That's not success—that guy's a phony, living a lie that almost caught up with him."

Milt pauses in front of the field office doors, meets Russ's eyes and says quietly, "Sometimes lies help. Sometimes white lies help us make a better reality."

To Russ, he says this. To Russ! He _believes_ that heaping sack of bullshit? Jesus Christ. Maybe the universe does know what it's doing, Russ thinks absently, just a little bit, by giving Milt somebody who's willing to tell him right to his perfect face when he's full of crap.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Russ demands. "You constructing yourself a better reality, Milt, ignoring whatever it is you aren't telling me? Is that it?"

And Milt looks away, bites his lip—and he doesn't have to say anything, he doesn't, so maybe it's a win in and of itself that he looks back at Russ after a second and says, very low, "I'm constructing a better reality for everybody else."

Russ barks out a laugh. "Sure, sure, yeah, except if it's a lie it's _not reality_. That's kind of inherent to the definition, you know?"

Milt shakes his head, shoulders tightening, and turns around, reaches for the door to the field office—but Russ catches up with one stride, leans in and grabs past him for the handle before Milt can actually open it.

"Russ—"

"Milt," Russ snaps, and—and jesus, they're standing close to each other. Milt is fucking tall. "I'm not asking you for a goddamn better reality. There is no better reality, there's just this one. We're soulmates, and we can't lie to each other, and you won't fucking talk to me. How's that for reality?"

Milt closes his eyes, and lets out a weird shaky breath, and then turns—Russ isn't expecting it, doesn't move back as far as he should, and then it doesn't matter because Milt's _touching_ him, warm gentle clasp settling into place against the side of his neck, base of Milt's thumb scraping the evening stubble coming up along Russ's jaw. "I'm sorry," Milt says. "Please, you have to understand—I'm sorry," and then it feels like before Russ can even blink he's let go again—away, through the door, gone.

Well, Russ thinks dimly, staring at the stupid shiny glass as it swings back into place behind him. Well, even if that didn't make any sense, at least Russ knows for sure that he meant it.

 

*

 

It's Milt who's got the problem, here. Milt's the one who's holding back. He even admitted as much.

So it's like some kind of bad joke, that Russ is the one who ends up in the spotlight when Milt finds a foot in the water.

"Absolutely not," he says, even though it's already too goddamn late. He knows exactly what Guz is about to say next—

"I need you to go and see Constance."

And there it is. Fuck.

"Someone close to you? Someone who loves you," Milt is saying—guessing wildly, obviously, and Russ barely resists the urge to drop his head into his hands.

"My mother," he snaps, and basically it's all downhill from there.

Not that it isn't a treat, to watch Milt and Mom try to outsmile each other across a table in the correctional facility. But then Milt actually fucking agrees to let her out, and that's obviously a one-way ticket straight to disaster.

Because there's no _way_ Mom misses the careful three feet of space Milt and Russ are keeping between them at all times. Or, for that matter, the way Russ spits, "You've looked at you, right?" in the clothing store—sure, she wasn't actually in the changing room at the time, but that doesn't mean she didn't hear it.

Russ can see it in her beady little eyes, her scheming face. She is absolutely connecting the dots.

At the very least, she is circumspect enough to wait until Milt's stepped out to make a call checking up on the process of identifying the foot's former owner before she says, "So, Russell, do I owe you congratulations?"

"No, Constance," Russ spits, "you do not."

And she has no evidence, she's just fishing—playing him like she plays everybody, looking for a weak spot. But knowing that doesn't help him hide the grimace, when she tilts her head and says, "Oh, my word. Is that sweet young FBI agent your soulmate?"

"He is not _sweet_ ," Russ mutters, and Mom's going to know exactly how to interpret that.

"Well! Isn't that just wonderful," she says, with one of those warm and intensely fucking fake smiles she's perfected. "You know, I remember how it was with your father—"

"Dad was not your soulmate."

"Russell—"

"Dad was not your soulmate," Russ repeats, louder, "because if he was he wouldn't have left! I have lost _track_ of the number of wildly contradictory things you have told me about Dad, so please listen to me when I tell you that angle is not going to work on me, okay? I know better than to believe a word that comes out of your mouth. You can con Milt, you can con everybody else in this office, but don't think for one single second that you're going to be able to con me."

Mom sniffs, and—naturally—has the stone-cold gleaming brass balls to look hurt. "Whatever you say, Russell, but I want you to know that I wish nothing but the best for you and your young man."

Russ flinches, helpless, from the whole concept of Milt being his—his _anything_ , his _young man_ , Jesus fucking Christ, and then Milt finally comes back in and they can just drop the whole goddamn subject.

 

*

 

Mom only proves him right, in the end. She lies about the money—looking right into his eyes, after he fucking _begs_ her not to, she lies about the money.

Or doesn't tell them the truth, at least, which is basically the same thing as far as Russ is concerned.

It would be nice to think she hadn't had anything to do with it. It would be nice to think she regrets some of the bullshit she put him through. It would be—

It would be a better reality. Hah.

(Maybe there really is a reason Russ's manifestation turned out like this; maybe it isn't just the cosmos screwing with his head. Maybe there's a reason why something out there decided to give him one single goddamn person who'd tell him the truth no matter what, even when they'd rather not.

He doesn't see why it had to be _Milt_ , but—

But maybe there is something about this mess that he really can be glad about.)

 _You deserve to know you're loved_ , jesus, what a fucking jolt that was coming out of Milt's mouth—and he'd been saying it to Russ, no doubt about it. Almost like—

Almost like he felt guilty, maybe. He's Russ's soulmate, after all; in some hypothetical alternate universe where they aren't, you know, them, he's the person Russ should be able to count on for professions of heartfelt sentiment. And it's Milt, who's a by-the-book perfectionist control freak if Russ ever met one—except he's falling down on the job, in this particular area. He's falling down on the job and knows it, and can't fix it.

And that's the first time it occurs to Russ that maybe this is driving Milt just as nuts as it's driving him—that it's not just Russ himself making this situation a pain in Milt's ass; that Milt's feeling as helpless, as fixated and frustrated and unable to let this go, as Russ is.

Anyway, it's lucky for everybody, and for the case, that Russ has the presence of mind to lie right back. Not to Milt, obviously—he has to tell Font about the gun, and Guz about the boat rental, because he couldn't have gotten any of it out if he'd been saying it to Milt. Explaining it to Milt afterward is almost a relief, a weight lifting—because if Milt had asked him about any of it directly, he couldn't have gotten away with not answering, and god only knows what the hell he would've said.

They sort it all out and send Mom back to prison where she belongs. And the last thing she says to him before she gets in the van is, "I know he's your soulmate, Russell, but you keep an eye on Milt, you hear me? Because your lovely upstanding FBI agent is one hell of a con man, if you ask me."

And it's with that still rattling around in his head that Russ turns and walks back into the BCPD, and straight into Milt's office.

Milt's sitting at his desk and staring at his phone. It's not on, just lying there deactivated, black and shiny, of a piece with Milt's black shiny desk and black shiny stapler and black shiny chair. And then Milt's head jerks up and his gaze finds Russ, and he looks—

He looks fucking terrified.

"You okay?" Russ says slowly, more carefully than he meant to.

Milt glances away and clears his throat. "I'd appreciate it if we could come to some sort of agreement," he says, not quite evenly, "regarding the sorts of questions we ask each other, considering—"

"Considering what?" Russ snaps. "Come on, say it. Say it already."

Milt meets his eyes again, but it's no use, the Ken doll face is back in place. "Considering we're soulmates, and our manifestation appears to compel honesty."

"Oh, give me a fucking break," Russ says. "It doesn't _compel_ shit. You don't have to say a single word to me if you don't want to. The ones that come out just have to be true, that's all. I can't make you tell me a damn thing, Milt."

And it's possible that some of his frustration shows a little, right there. He can't help it: if _only_ , right? If only he could make Milt answer him—just get to the bottom of the whole thing right here, right now, and then they could both get on with their lives.

(Right? There's no other way this ends. Just because he remembers how Milt's hand felt against his face a little too well; just because he'd gotten weird and a little breathless, standing that close to Milt in the lobby, looking up at him—

None of that means anything. Milt doesn't even like him.

Right?)

"Nevertheless," Milt is saying, squaring his shoulders, "I think we should come up with some ground rules for—"

"No," Russ says.

Milt blinks.

"No," Russ repeats, just so there's no way Milt can misunderstand him. "Forget it. That's not going to work, and you know it. We're _soulmates_. I'm the last person in the world who's going to be running out to buy you a promise ring, okay, but I'm not stupid. That means something.

"I wanted to ignore it, and I'm betting you did, too. But I don't think we can. I think this is important, and even if you don't want to—" and Russ fumbles helplessly, because Christ alive, this is hard to say to Milt and his crisp dress shirt, his perfectly knotted tie, across that looming sculpture of a desk— "to make it official, or whatever the hell people do, if we're ever even going to be _friends_ , you have got to tell me whatever is up with you."

Milt doesn't move. He swallows, pale, jaw set, and stares at Russ, and doesn't open his mouth so much as a fraction.

"You've _got_ to," Russ says again, and it's coming out creepy and intense, even pleading, but he can't help it. "How bad can it be? Milt, this is _me_ you're talking to. I already think you're awful in every way known to man! You did something wrong, you fucked up—who hasn't? You need a guarantee I'm not going to flip out and never speak to you again, you've got one: I'm your goddamn soulmate."

"I know," Milt says. "I—can't."

Russ looks at him. He expects to feel pissed, waits for the frustration to flare up hot. But he stands there, and all that happens is—

Milt has to believe it. Whatever it is he means by that, by _I can't_ : that he can't tell Russ? That he can't bring himself to believe even his soulmate would stick with him once they knew whatever he's hiding? That he genuinely thinks being honest with Russ for five minutes would ruin everything—it's phenomenally irritating, on a dozen different levels.

But it's—it's also, maybe, a little bit sad.

"Okay," Russ hears himself say, almost gently. "Well, heads up: I'm not going to quit asking."

And Milt actually sort of smiles at him, the barest curve of that stupid unfairly attractive mouth. "I didn't think you would."

"Wow, gosh, it's like we're soulmates," Russ says, deadpan; and Milt's lips tighten for just a second, like maybe he was thinking about laughing.

 

*

 

(Probably for the best that he didn't. Russ doesn't need that mental image: Milt with his head tipped back, the line of his throat exposed over that crisp goddamn dress shirt collar, tie just asking for somebody to walk up and grab him by it and pull—

Yeah, nobody needs that. Especially not Russ.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

He does keep prodding at it; he can't stop himself. When they're investigating Danny's parents' deaths, in the car—sending an innocent person to prison is a totally reasonable guess, okay, and Milt's actually pretty graceful about deflecting by lobbing a question right back at Russ, even though the look on his face says something a little less graceful.

And it's even almost kind of sweet of him, to say what he says about Pritchett, that Russ is the better cop and the better man. Because he's so freaked out about letting something slip, exposing whatever it is he's got hidden, that he'd never have taken the risk if he hadn't known what would come out of his mouth—if he hadn't already been sure what he would say, and that he believed it.

Doesn't stop Russ from smashing Pritchett's portrait, of course. But it still makes him feel sort of—warm, pleased. That maybe—

Maybe Milt's not unhappy that it's Russ, that they should—that it turned out to be Russ. That whatever else about this situation Milt isn't okay with, he's at least happier with Russ as his soulmate than he would have been with Pritchett.

It's not much, but it's something.

 

*

 

It's—actually a little too much, kind of. Russ leaves Milt behind, walks out of the BCPD and there's still a stupid tingle running up and down his spine.

Which possibly has something to do with why he's so ready to leave Milt out of the whole Barclay Spades thing. It just—it just seems suddenly risky, in a weird way he can't quite define, to spend any more time around Milt than he has to. Milt's got a secret and Russ wants to know what it is, and he can take or leave the rest of it. He's not any more invested in the rest of it than Milt is: he'd take Milt over Pritchett, too. It's nothing to pop champagne over.

(Meredith's commentary about Milt's ass is both unnecessary and unwelcome. There's nothing, _nothing_ , Russ wants to think about _less_ than Milton Chamberlain's ass, especially not when he's about to have to go back upstairs and try not to look at it—)

And Milt maybe notices. Or at least that's the only rationale Russ can come up with for why Milt calls him in on a case involving a federal fugitive: he noticed Russ suddenly keeping his distance, and he—didn't like it.

Because he's a control freak. Not because he didn't _like_ it, not because he gives so much as half a shit how Russ feels about anything; he knows, he _knows_ , exactly what Russ wants from him, and he's got no interest in giving it, and that's that.

And then—well.

Then Russ gets kidnapped.

 

*

 

Milt sends him back to the car for the evidence kit, and he's thinking dark thoughts about Milt's stupid sincere face— _I do need you_ , what a thing to just fucking say to somebody, and especially when all you meant was that you couldn't Mr. Fantastic your own two hands back to the car for your own goddamn evidence kit.

And then, all at once, he's yanked back against the seat, and Mitchell fucking Ford has him by the throat.

So that's fun.

He ends up spitting it out, somewhere between getting handcuffed in the basement and telling Ford he has diabetes, when Ford starts making unwarranted observations about having people who care: "I've got a soulmate, man, come on. We just—we just met," sort of true, depending on the timescale you've got in mind, "we barely know each other," and that's kind of true too, except for the ways it isn't, "we haven't even—we haven't—"

And that, of all things, his fumbling fucking nonsense, makes Ford's face kind of soften. He still doesn't let Russ go, obviously, but hey.

Seeing Milt on the TV is almost as much of a punch in the gut as Ford gave him earlier, and that's _before_ he honest-to-god proposes an exchange, himself for Russ, like the egotistical dumbass he is.

Russ says as much to Ford, can't hold it in—because he'd rather be yelling it into Milt's face, but he can't, and the unassailable truth of that fact is infuriating.

And Ford sits down across from him and gives him a long, steady look, and then says, "So he's your soulmate?"

"What makes you say that?" Russ snaps, heart pounding.

"What that guy did back there," Ford says calmly, "you don't do that to manipulate somebody. You do that, you sacrifice yourself, because you care. When I said I had more people who'd cared about me in prison than you do out here, you told me you had a soulmate; and that guy, that's the one person I've seen so far who's made it painfully obvious that he cares about you." He shrugs a shoulder, not looking away from Russ. "Seemed like a reasonable guess."

"Yeah, well, you don't know shit." Russ shakes his head. "We barely even speak to each other half the time. He won't tell me anything that matters. And that," and Russ jerks his handcuffed hands up, points above them in the approximate direction of where the TV is upstairs, "that's just a pointless gesture in comparison. And he _knows_ that—"

"Who cares?" and suddenly Ford's not quite so calm anymore, coming up out of his seat sharply enough to shove it backward with a scrape across the concrete. "Have you told _him_ anything that matters? If a pointless gesture's all you've got, and you still do it anyway—doesn't that count for something?"

And Russ looks away and wets his lips, can't help thinking about Milt's hand coming up against his face, _I'm sorry. Please, you have to understand_ —

Ford's still a bank-robbing murderer. But it's possible that maybe, just maybe, he has some miniscule fraction of a point.

 

*

 

Milt finds him, in the end.

All the stuff Russ wanted to shout at him, and when he's right there at last, Russ doesn't say anything but his name.

It doesn't matter: it feels like the manifestation anyway, a truth revealed, that he stumbles across that basement floor and into Milt's arms like that; that Milt's hands come up and settle around his shoulders, at the nape of his neck, broad and warm and just a little unsteady.

A couple more uniforms follow Milt down the stairs, and Russ tenses, reflexive, but in the end he doesn't move. They're soulmates, after all. If he wants to stay here for a minute and let Milt hold him up, he's allowed.

And Milt doesn't shove him off, either.

 

*

 

Milt's the one who takes Russ home, after they've caught up to Ford and everything's settled.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't even offer. Guz is trying to convince Russ to go get himself checked over, that even aside from the blows Ford had dealt him and the physical restriction of being chained up for a while, an actual doctor should make sure that unnecessary shot of insulin didn't screw him up in any unexpected ways. She's being ridiculous, obviously, because it's been hours, and Russ doesn't mince words when he tells her as much.

And then, right into the middle of it, just as Guz is opening her mouth to be wrong some more, Milt says, "I'll take care of him."

Guz blinks, looks at Milt, and raises an eyebrow.

"I've got—"

"Many and varied certifications in relevant medical evaluation and first aid procedures, I'm sure," Guz says crisply, "but is that really a good idea? This hasn't been easy on you, either, Milt."

"No, no, it's fine," Russ begins, waving a hand, totally prepared to play it cool.

"He's my soulmate," Milt blurts, like an idiot.

Guz's eyebrows leap for her hairline.

"He's my—I'm—we're soulmates."

Russ grimaces, but deliberately shuts his mouth; and after a second, Guz takes his silence for exactly what it is.

"Well," she says briskly. "I suppose that does make you his medical proxy by default, so even if I were to insist he couldn't make a responsible decision regarding his own care, you'd have the upper hand. Just—keep an eye on him, then. And don't come in tomorrow, either of you, or I'll dock your pay."

"You don't pay him," Russ says.

"I have my ways," Guz says, with a sharp sort of smile, and then she gives them both a matter-of-fact little nod, and turns around to walk back into her office.

Russ slants a sideways look up at Milt, who's staring back at him with something that might almost be apprehension—as if he's just realized he signed himself up for at least an hour of Russ's uninterrupted company. "Well," Russ says. "I guess you're driving me home, then."

 

*

 

Russ spends the drive leaning his head against the window, staring out into the dark without actually seeing anything and trying not to think too hard.

It doesn't really work.

By the time Milt's hustled him into the familiar surroundings of his own blessed apartment, he's pretty sure he knows exactly what he wants to say; and he barely even waits for Milt to close the door behind them before he swings around, jabs a finger into Milt's startled face, and says, "The soulmate card? _Really_?"

Milt opens his mouth, closes it, and winces a little. "I'd apologize," he murmurs after a second, "but apparently I'm not sorry. I'm—I wanted to help. I wanted to make sure you were okay. I thought if she knew, she would let me."

And Russ can't help but snort. "If she knew _what_? After we've spent weeks dancing around each other, not talking about it—man, if we're soulmates then we have to _be soulmates_. All the time, not just when we feel like it or we happen to not be mad at each other, or right after I go missing and get locked up in some guy's basement all day. I could hardly even get you to say it the other day, and now you're just telling Guz right to her face because you want a better look at my bruises?"

"That's not what I want," Milt says quietly. "I'm—I don't want to be your soulmate just some of the time."

"Then what _do_ you want?" Russ says, sharp, setting his hands to Milt's shoulders and shoving him back against the closed door behind him.

It's a funny question to ask, when he's not sure what _he_ wants: for Milt to get mad, to shove Russ off him now the way he hadn't back in Veronica's basement, or maybe to snap right back that Russ hasn't exactly been Soulmate of the Year himself.

But Milt doesn't do any of those things. He allows himself to come up against the door with a soft thump; he doesn't reach up, doesn't push Russ's hands off him. He swallows and then sets his jaw in a familiar sort of way, and—

And he's not going to fucking answer, is he?

Russ hears himself make a frustrated inarticulate sound, shoves at Milt again and shakes his head. "See, this? This, right here, this is the problem. Jesus, sometimes it's like—it's like I can't trust you _because_ you can't lie to me. Because you know it, too, and you don't answer, and I know for sure every single time you would have done it if you could, every time you'd have wanted to—"

And finally Milt does reach up, but not to shove Russ away—just to grip Russ's wrists, wrap his stupidly long fingers around Russ's forearms and hang on. "Oh, like I couldn't say the exact same thing about you," he says, and Russ feels a fierce satisfaction at the edge in his tone. "This isn't just about me, Russ. It's about both of us. That's how manifestations are supposed to work: they do exactly what we need them to do. They do for us what we wouldn't have been able to do on our own. And for you and me, that's—"

"Be honest with each other," Russ hears himself say, when Milt stops just short of it and swallows.

Milt's mouth pinches flat. "Yeah," he says, half a sigh, on an exhale.

Russ hesitates, letting his fingers curl a little, absent, into Milt's shirt. It's—it's a little too easy to imagine, really: it would've gotten them off on the wrong foot for sure, if Russ had fucked up that first case by making Ricky lie. And ever since then—it's pissed him off, no question, every time Milt's ignored him or dodged him or deliberately not replied to something he's said.

But it's kind of let him feel out the edges of what Milt's keeping from him. And it's also thrown everything Milt _has_ told him into sharp relief, because he knows for a fact that Milt meant it all sincerely.

_You deserve to know you're loved._

_You're a better detective, and a better person, than he could ever be._

_I don't want to tell you what you want to know. Except when I do._

Meant it all sincerely, and—and had to choose to say it, because he's proven over and over again that he will in fact just shut his mouth if he doesn't want Russ to hear what might come out of it.

And without that—what might Russ have thought? That Milt was messing with him, manipulating him, just trying to figure out what he had to say to get Russ to trust him. That it was all bullshit, to varying degrees, and he'd be an idiot to believe any of it. Would they _ever_ have been able to stop lying to each other? What would it have taken? How would they have managed to get to the point where they could even talk about it—where they could trust each other enough to even try to listen?

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second, fists his hands a little more tightly in Milt's ridiculously crisp dress shirt, and says, "It scares me, too."

"Russ—"

"Shut up, will you? I'm trying to—just shut up." Russ shakes Milt a little with his grip on Milt's shirt, presses his knuckles against the steady strong line of Milt's collarbone; he can feel Milt breathing. "It scares me, too. Okay? Talking to you like this, all the shit I've never told anybody. The big lies, sure, but—but all the little ones, too, whether I'm tired or my head hurts or I want to go home, how I'm doing and whether I'm happy.

"What I want—what I _actually_ want, not just what I want to want or what I'm willing to tell you I want. How I _feel_ about things," and Russ can't help but make a face at the whole idea, and feels the short amused huff of air Milt lets out almost as well as he hears it. "You—I don't just not hate you. Even if we weren't soulmates, working with you is the sharpest I've ever been, and I love it," and jesus, he really needs to stop talking, he's touching Milt and Milt's touching him and he really, really should shut his mouth before he manages to tell Milt— "and you're smart, you annoy the shit out of me but you know what you're doing. You care about the cases, about people, about me, and you're so excruciatingly good-looking that I can't fucking stand it."

The last bit comes out all in a rush, one big pile of words just toppling over and spilling out of him in a cascade. And surely there isn't one single bit of it that's any real surprise to Milt, Russ thinks distantly; but Milt looks startled anyway, eyes wide and dark, hands tensing suddenly around Russ's wrists.

"I saw him," he says quietly, and it's such a non sequitur that Russ almost doesn't follow. "In the car, making you drive away," and okay, right, Milt's talking about Ford. "I saw him, I knew he had you. You were missing all night. I knew the statistics, I knew it mattered how long it took—how important it was for us to get a lead somehow. But I couldn't stop thinking about how long it took me to find you in the first place. How long it took me to get to Battle Creek, to even meet you; and then that I'd—that we'd—" He stops and swallows, skims his thumbs across the insides of Russ's wrists tentatively in a way that just makes Russ's heart pound harder. "That we hadn't even gotten far enough to try."

"But you want to," Russ says, after what feels like a painfully long pause.

"Yeah," Milt says. "Yes, I—I want to," and he looks terrified and exhilarated at the same time—like maybe he wasn't sure what was going to come out of his mouth until he heard it, Russ thinks. "I want to do it right. I want a second chance," and there's something about the way he's looking at Russ, the intensity of it, and the way he's parted his lips, that makes it almost not a surprise when he kisses Russ.

Almost. Russ makes a weird little noise against his mouth, but it's never taken him long to catch up with Milt, and this is no exception; plus it's satisfying as hell to dig his teeth into Milt's stupid lip and feel the startled breath Milt sucks in, to get one hand up into Milt's neatly-slicked hair and muss it all up.

"You realize," Russ says, hoarse, when they finally break apart, "that making out with me isn't going to get you off the hook, here. Whatever it is you haven't told me—"

"I will," Milt says quietly.

Russ stares at him. He looks completely unlike himself, or maybe the most like himself Russ has ever seen him: Russ has totally fucked up his hair, and his mouth is red and a little wet, and he's started to flush clear up the sides of his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears.

"I'll tell you. I—not right now," Milt adds, with a wince that says that was an unplanned but definitely honest addition, "but I will. I'll tell you everything," and boy, Russ thinks, is that the sweetest the truth's ever sounded.

"I'll hold you to that," Russ murmurs comfortably, and kisses him again.

 

 


End file.
